Dinner for the Damaged
by Reasonably Random
Summary: Based off a prompt given to me on Tumblr: Clint makes Natasha diner. Wasn't expecting it to be this long and was NOT expecting that ending...I blame Mayday Parade...ENJOY!


_AN: This this is 8 pages and 3,769 words long. And I wrote most of this on my Ipod...yeah...6 pages and 2,800+ wordss on that device...be happy!_

_Based off of prompt given to me via Tumblr: _Clint makes Natasha dinner.

_Didn't expect it to be this long...at all...oops?_

_And I really shouldn't listen to Mayday Parade when writing Clintasha though...you'll see why..._

_Disclaimer: DON'T OWN NUTHIN!_

Pre-movie-verse

* * *

Once, after a particularly grueling mission in which Natasha had been shot, Clint didn't visit her. She didn't know why he hadn't visited yet. But to her, it had to be a stupid reason. All she did was take a bullet for him, he would have died with a bullet through his heart if she hadn't stepped in front of it. She thought he would've been grateful, she had saved his life, again. But the debt still hadn't been paid, not yet. In her opinion, Clint was being completely and utterly stupid. So what if she had bled (a lot)? So what if she had passed out? And so what if she was going to be in the medical wing for a few more days recovering? She was alive and breathing wasn't she? He still had a partner. In her book, that meant she was A-okay. She didn't know why Clint was being so ridiculously stubborn.

The whizzing of the door to the room she was occupying opening startled her out of her fowl thoughts. She looked up, her emotionless expression hiding the hopeful feeling that Clint had finally come to visit her. Her hope dissipated when she saw that it was just Coulson.

"Don't worry, he just needs some time. You gave him quite the scare with that little stunt you pulled." he told her, a mechanical smile, that never seemed to go away, plastered on his face.

She scowled at her handler. He was the only other person, other than Clint, who could actually read her like a book. "I don't see what the problem is," she mutters, "I'm fine, aren't I?"

The smile turns into a frown. He studies her for a moment before he replies. "You weren't fine when you were bleeding profusely in his arms. You weren't fine when you passed out before you even boarded the jet. And you certainly weren't fine until you had a blood transfusion." he told her. "Excuse Clint for recovering from the fact that you, his partner and the closest thing he has to a friend, almost bled out in his arms. He hasn't been through that much trauma since Barney."

Natasha winced, the memory of him telling her while they were locked in that freezer flashed through her mind. Being trapped in that freezer had actually been a blessing-and a curse. It was the first time she had actually thought-and shot down-the idea that they could be something more than just partners. Her wince turned into a frown. 'Does Clint actually...care? Impossible!' she told herself. She didn't think that Clint had actually cared for _her_. She knew he cared for her like any partner does, it was why he had taken bullets for her in previous missions. (She was still unclear on why he had spared her in the first place, but she was sure it was just because he was in need of a partner who could match his abilities.) Or at least...that's what she thought the reason was. Maybe she was...'No. It's not possible.'

"What's not possible?" Coulson asks.

The Russian curses herself mentally, she must have voiced her thoughts. That or Phil was a telepath. She throws him a cautious glance.

"No, I am not a mind reader, you said it out loud. And I know what all my agents are thinking about." he said, putting the smile back in its place.

She watches him for a moment, he doesn't even flinch, he just keeps smiling. She looks away, "Am I really the closest thing he has to a friend?" she asks quietly. Her eyes widen as she realizes what she's just asked. She looks at him with a small amount of fear and vulnerability in her eyes. She has never had a real friend before, she wonders if he knows.

His smile turns genuine. "Let me put it this way: before he met you, he was the biggest grizzly bear this agency has ever had the unwanted pleasure of dealing with. You, my dear, have turned him into a giant teddy bear."

If Natasha wanted to blush, she would've been blushing at that statement. She looked away, a ghost of a smile on her lips. She eases back into the pillows, "Before I met Clint, I was empty of any and all emotions." she whispers to him, allowing honesty to fill her voice as her eyelids droop. She hadn't realized she was so tired.

Phil smiles wider, "Not empty, just unused." he told her. She did nothing but stare. "I see that you are tired, I will come back tomorrow to debrief you then. Have a good dream, Natasha, you owe it to yourself." he said, his voice commanding yet gentile, it reminded her of Clint's voice.

Clint. She missed him. Where was he? Why had he not come? "Will you tell Clint that I need-want to see him?" she mumbled sleepily.

The mechanical smile was back. "Of course." And with a slight inclination of his head, he left as she fell into the open arms of sleep.

Clint loosed another arrow at a target. He watched as the arrow sunk deep into the bulls eye. He released a breath. His mind had imagined the traditional target as the man who had shot at him and hit Natasha. He had quickly killed the man after Tasha went down, an arrow straight to his heart. ('Poetic justice.' Clint thought to himself.) He didn't know why he was reliving the shot. He shook his head walking over to then bench and sat down, discarding his precious bow onto the floor. He dropped his head into his hands as he prayed for peace. But peace eluded him.

The door to the gym opened and Coulson walked in, stopping right in front of Clint. "She's asking for you, Barton." he stated.

Clint sighed, roughly rubbing his hands against his face before dropping them all together. "I'm sorry." he mumbles.

"Don't tell me, tell her." Phil said. "And you might want to explain why you are angry with her and define the word 'friend' to her." he added before started his walk out.

"Is she awake yet?" Clint asked.

"She was. She went back to sleep. I estimate you have two and a half hours to kill. I suggest you kill them wisely." Phil answered before shutting the door.

Clint looked down at his bow. He could go back to shooting, but that had lost its appeal after imagining the guy dying 34 consecutive times. He had to do something special for Natasha, as a way to make up for not visiting and a becoming friends gift. He stood up abruptly, an idea coming to him. A brilliant scheme started to form in his brain before he had even picked up his bow and left the room.

A wonderful smell broke through Natasha's dreamless slumber. She inhaled deeply as her stomach rumbled in hunger. _This_ was _not _the smell of hospital food. This gloriously tantalizing scent tickled her nose as she pried her eyes open, determined to discover what the source of the delicious smell was. Her blurry vision allowed her to see the form of someone wearing a tight, grey shirt had their back turned to her. As her vision cleared, she slowly recognized the form as Clint.

She knew he knew that she was watching him. And she also knew that he was purposefully using his muscular body (she had seen him shirtless many a time, she wasn't one to deny the truth) to block her from seeing the delicious treat he had for her. Her eyes narrowed into a glare that she knew he couldn't see, but could definitely feel.

She discovered she was nothing less than right when he said, with his back still turned to her, "Having me drop dead from the power of your glare is not going to help you in any aspect of your life."

Her glare didn't cease as she easily replied, careful not to let emotion slip into her voice, "Not coming to visit your injured partner for an unexplained, and probably a stupid reason is cause enough to be bodily injured by yours truly."

He stops whatever he's been doing with his hands for a moment, keeping his own emotions in check she guesses, before looking over his shoulder with a grin on his face. "Don't tell me you missed me, Romanoff." he teased delicately, but with Natasha, teasing about her emotions was never delicate-ever.

Her temper flared, "I said nothing of the kind!" she denies.

The archer's grin only widened, "You didn't need to, your glare said it all." he told her.

She huffed as she sat up and roughly started adjusted the pillows behind her with one hand. She struggled for a brief period of time before Clint laid a hand on her arm to stop her from hurting herself. Neither said anything as Clint adjusted the pillows for her, making it easier for her to sit up. She takes advantage of his distraction to see what he had previously been blocking from her vision. Her tongue immediately darts out if her mouth and wets her chapped lips, her mouth watering in response. There, sitting on one of the movable tables, is a beautifully baked lasagna dish. "Is that...?" she trails off, looking at him, refusing to blush (or breathe) when she realized how close their countenances were.

Their gaze locks briefly before he shifts his eyes to the food and smiles, "Fresh from the oven," he tells her, "Dinner for the damaged." his voice is serious as his grin never falters.

He stays beside her, lost in thought. She studies him for a moment, his grin stays frozen on his face as his storm green eyes look distantly at the back wall, as if watching a memory she could not see. She would've been content just to watch him, but her stomach won over her observing. "Get some for me." she ordered him.

Clint was startled out of his memory by her sudden order. He looked at her and noticed how close they actually were to each other and how blue her eyes were. Thankfully he had enough control not to look down at her lips. (That would have made the situation awkward and could have been detrimental to his health.) He chuckled as he got up, watching her smile softly from the corner of his eye as he stood to plate and deliver her food. "Now I know first-hand how terrible this hospital food can be. And since you'll be in here for a few more days, I figured you'd need some real food." he babbled.

Natasha barely heard him over the rumbling of her stomach. "Now, I know you prefer pancakes or waffles, but the kitchen ran out of mix, so I might make that for you tomorrow. But the pantry did have everything I needed to make lasagna." he delicately places a generous portion onto a plate and pauses. "So I said to myself, 'Why not? She said she liked Italian over Russian.'"

She audibly growls at him, knowing all too well that he was purposefully stalling, keeping the delicious substance away from her. He laughed as he spared a quick glance at her over his shoulder, noting how her ferocious blue eyes were fixed onto the food. He shook his head, grabbing a fork and picking up the plate, taking it to her.

"Now, be careful its-" Clint started, but realized he was a little late on his warning. She was already spitting out the large piece that she had just shoved in. Clint roared with laughter at the sight. "-hot." he managed to say between fits.

She threw him a half-hearted glare as she muttered something in Russian before blowing on the steaming food, cooling it down enough to take small bites.

Clint shook his head and wiped his eyes as he turned back to cut himself a piece of the delicious meal he had made. As he plopped the portion onto his plate, he received a pillow to the back of the head. "My lasagna!" Natasha told him greedily.

He shook his head, "No, you greedy Russian, it's our lasagna." he corrected as he grabbed a fork and went to sit by her feet on the bed.

She purses her lips into a pout, "You said dinner for the damaged," she mumbles, blowing on another piece before delicately placing it into her mouth.

He gives her a funny look and sets the fork down on the plate, using his free hand to pull up his shirt, revealing the white bandaging underneath. "Remember this?" he asks.

She stops mid-chew. 'On his stomach? How did he-?' And then she remembered. It has been the reason why she had been close enough to step in front of the shot. One of the lackeys had a machete, and Clint received the pointed edge of that blade. It was a miracle that it got stuck and didn't go straight through. She roughly swallowed her semi-chewed food. "How deep was it?" she asked, her eyes still on his stomach, even though he had put his shirt back over it.

Clint swallowed his delicious bite, "Not as bad as we initially thought." he responded, then paused and added, "And nowhere near as bad as yours."

She looks up, his eyes are on hers and their gaze is locked. She can't look away. His gray eyes are sad, angry, and frightened all at once. He is showing her emotions that she hasn't felt since...and she _can't_ look _away_.

"You scared everything out of me when you passed out before the medics grabbed you." he tells her. "You had lost a lot of blood just while you were in my arms." his eyes fill with pain as he breaks eye contact. "I thought I lost you, Nat, I was so scared that I had lost you." he said.

Her appetite was gone now. She set her plate of half uneaten food on the table beside her bed before leaning forward and laying a hand in his shoulder. "I'm here, Clint, and I'm not going anywhere fast." she murmured.

His eyes where closed as he set his fork on his plate and clutched her hand with his free one. _'She is here. She is alive. And she is well.'_ he kept repeating like a mantra in his mind. "Why did you take the bullet, Tasha?" he asks, his voice barely a hoarse whisper.

She doesn't reply right away, she thinks briefly before answering, "You would have died."

His hand squeezes hers harder, "That's not a good enough answer, Natasha." her partner growls. His eyes open and he turns his head to search for her eyes, she narrowly avoids his gaze. "I could have died many times before and you've never taken the bullet. Why did you do it, now?" he presses, his voice sounding desperate.

She has the answer, she continues to hide it from him though. It's why she is looking everywhere but at him. She knows that if his eyes capture hers again, she'll tell him. And she is afraid of the truth.

His hand suddenly releases hers and he practically leaps from the bed. Natasha instantly misses his warmth. He slams his plate of half eaten food on the table and starts to walk around the small room, clearing his head. "I'm sorry, Tasha, I'm still a little shaken from having you..." he leaves the sentence hanging, unwilling to finish it.

"How do you think it makes me feel to see you get shot?" she angrily blurts, surprising the both of them, he whirls around and locks onto her eyes. She knows she's said too much already but there was no going back and they were beyond the point of no return in their messed up partnership. "Every time you get shot, or stabbed, or injured in general and start bleeding in my arms, I'm scared too. I'm scared that the medical team won't make it in time and you'll bleed out in my arms! I'm scared that I'll loose the only man who has ever seen an ounce of good-or potential for good-in me in my life!"

He can see that she is frightened by the words that are pouring from her mouth at a speed she can't control and angry at him for all the times he has made her feel something she didn't want to. He wants to stop her, he doesn't want to see her break, he doesn't want to see her fall. But she has to say these things, she has to learn that she's human and is capable of feeling and breaking down. And she has to know that he _will_ catch her if and when she falls. He doesn't realize that her time is now until she delivers the kicker.

She looks away from him, shaking her head as if trying not to remember. "I saw the glint of the gun and I just...reacted." She mumbles. "I was afraid I'd lose my only friend." she finally admits with a slight hitch in her breath.

_'This is it, Barton,'_ he thinks. _'She's falling, you better catch her!'_ So he does the only thing he knows that is probably the second most stupid action a person could ever do to Natasha. He walked over to her and hugged her.

Her gasp is all he needs to know that he has surprised her, and in his mind her reaction could go one of two ways. One, her reflexes would kick in leading to both of them straining themselves and a longer stay in the medical wing for the both of them. Or two, she would just sit there, trying hard to reign her emotions back in. These are what he expected though, not what actually happened. What actually happened, surprised them both.

She hugged him back.

It was a tight, desperate hug. Her fingers dug into the material of his grey shirt as she pulled him tighter against her, and he could feel her body trembling against him. He pulled her arms tighter around her, as if he could protect her from the world in his iron grip. He wanted to, he wanted to _so_ much. She had been through hell on earth and all he wanted to do was keep her safe. He _had_ to protect her, he promised himself he would do everything in his power to see that she lived since they became 'official' partners. It's why he had taken so many bullets for her in their previous missions.

"Natasha, I will _never_ leave you. _You are_ my best friend. You know me better than _anyone_. You _understand_ me better than anyone. I will always find a way back to you." He murmurs into her hair, placing a reassuring kiss on the fiery locks.

"Promise?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper.

He smiles, holding her tighter, "I promise."

* * *

21 years later:

"CLINT!" Natasha screamed at the top of her lungs, watching him crumple to the ground, a bullet through his chest. Natasha sprints toward her fallen partner as Tony neutralizes the threat and flies in toward him, landing quickly to aid his fallen friend. "Captain, call for a medical evac. Tell them its an emergency. Thor, get Bruce back." Tony's commanding and morbid voice came through the comm systems. She felt time slow down, Tony was never, _ever_ that gloomy. Suddenly, she wasn't running fast enough, she was too far away. Why had she been so far away?! "Clint!" she said, collapsing onto the ground next to him. He was bleeding badly and Tony was trying his hardest to stop the bleeding through his armor. "I can't stop it-there's too much-too much bl-bl-stuff c-coming out." His words come out in fragments, he's stuttering, _and Tony Stark __**never**__ stutters._

"Tasha?" Clint murmurs softly, his eyes clouded with pain.

"I'm here, Clint, I'm right here." she says, crawling blindly closer to him, placing his head on her lap.

Sometime Steve had arrived, keeping pressure on the wound. "The medical team will be here in ten minutes, Clint. Just hold on a little longer." the Captain declared.

Clint lets out a loud sigh, they can see tears start to fall, "You and I both know that I won't last that long." he said honestly.

Bruce came up to them, shirtless and his pants barely staying on, "Clint, you're going to have to hang on, for all of us." he said, checking the wound for himself.

"Don't go towards the light, right Doc?" Clint joked before coughing up a dark liquid. Natasha couldn't look, this couldn't be happening. It was just another nightmare, she'll wake up in his arms soon. Right?

"Yeah, something like that." Bruce murmured, his tone void of any humor.

22 years together. A debt, some delicious food, saving the world countless times, a non-traditional wedding, two children, and one on the way, later, 22 years was not long enough. "Clint! Clint, no! You can't-you can't leave! I'm-I'm pregnant!" she yells at him sobbing freely now, not caring who heard or who saw, just caring about Clint.

His breath was labored, tears leaked from his clouded blue eyes as he realized he wouldn't make it to see the birth of his third child. "Pregnant? Tasha..." he trails of, coughing up a dark liquid and the Black Widow knows that their time together is coming to a tragic end.

"Tell the kids I love them and I'm sorry." Clint manages through the pain.

"Clint, don't do this, son." Steve said, tears slowly trailing down his own cheeks.

"Sorry, Cap, but both you and I know I don't follow orders well." the flightless hawk joked. His wife laughs. He would joke around at his own death. Soon the laugh turns into harder sobbing. "Sorry I had to leave this way, but at least-" he coughs up more liquid, and Bruce does his best to help make him comfortable. "-at least I went down with a fight." he says with a sad smile.

The men, his teammates, housemates, and friends, all give him reassuring pats that reassures no one. Natasha only holds him tighter, and cries harder.

"Natasha Alinova Romanoff, I love you." he tells his wife of 13 years.

This is it, this is goodbye. "And I love you, Clinton Francis Barton." she replies evenly. She smashes her lips against his, ignoring the copper taste, giving him one last, passionate kiss before he breathes his last breath.

* * *

_AN2: I'm sorry but...I REGRET NOTHING!_

_...Tumblr affects me too much..._


End file.
